


Between the Breaths

by Cuidightheach



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Feelings, M/M, about how we fear missing out on life, but we sit there experiencing it anyways, dance always, honestly this is kind of a rant piece, listen to music, practice self care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:08:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25029787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuidightheach/pseuds/Cuidightheach
Summary: You're always living your life to its fullest as long as you are simply living.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	Between the Breaths

**Author's Note:**

> I see my friend's face on the wall  
> Reminds me of times I that I had before  
> The cycle of life goes round and round  
> (Life's Not Perfect- Tenderfoot)

Life happens in the spaces between breaths. 

Harry was lucky enough to learn that, with his borrowed years. He was lucky enough to learn that the flowers in his garden bloomed while he was waiting for his microwave to chime. He was lucky enough to witness that the winter passed while he looked forward to a luncheon in spring. He was lucky enough to see that Life trickled in while he waited for the big events, the punctuation marks, the things he wrung his hands over and worried his thumbs about. 

Life happened only when he let his shoulders relax, when he wound down after work, when the light faded behind a veil of grey. It happened when he saw a stray dog, scared and shaking, on his walk to the market. It happened while he waited in a cue or when he played chess at the Burrow. It happened after funerals, after the crying and in between the chatter. It happened while he danced, while he dreamt, while he held his friends and sang quietly to himself. It happened when he waited for Teddy’s first birthday to roll back around, shuffling across the creaking floorboards of Grimmauld as it turned from a fortress into a home. Life crept up the walls like ivy. Life dripped through the ceiling during the thunderstorms of time. Life whispered on the breezes and rustled through the trees.

He was lucky enough to meet life halfway, on most days. When Ginny left him, crying into his shoulder and telling him that _It’s okay_ , and _It will be okay_ , he was able to drag his hand through her hair and whisper back, _I know, I know._ When Hermione broke down in the middle of dinner, her voice cracking as she spoke, _I’m sorry, it just feels so horrid here_ , he could take her hand and apparate away, saying, _It’s all right, I’ve got you._ When Draco Malfoy stopped him in the street, his eyes sunken and skin pale, Harry took his hand. This was the deal he had struck with Life. 

Life snuck silently across the floor while Harry slept, pulling the hems of his clothing and scuffing his shoes. It danced around with Time while he showered, using up all the sugar in the pantry and spoiling the milk. Life pulled the skeletons out of the closets, and Time laughed in the face of Death, unafraid. Time seduced the world into its never ending spiral, and Life marched onward, opening doors and sparking fires in the hearts of lovers, only for Time to put them out within the next month.

Life was like that, luring you into feeling. It rolled him around, flinging him from one day to the next, and rubbing away the sharp edges war had left in him. Life was the scar tissue on his body fading while he laughed with his friends, while he worked, while he quit, while he dreamed and played and fell and fell and fell. Life was the balm on his shattered love, the tonic and the poison all at once.

Life echoed between his heartbeats while he sat across the table from steely eyes. Life tripped him and he fell into strong arms, over and over again. Life dragged confessions to his lips while he kissed. Life poured down his face when he felt the crash of emotion in his chest, love and fear and relief. Life tossed him into hell, then convinced him that it was worth more than all the stars in the night sky.

It was hidden in the way his hand was held as Hermione walked down the aisle, Ron sobbing beside him. It was the magic that came in things that had nothing at all to do with wands or spells, but instead was how Molly hugged him, the smell of his pillow, the sound of birds after a sleepless night. Love was flickering in the pictures that covered his dresser and hung on his walls, a million moments captured and faded. It was the familiar song that floated through the hallway, played on ancient piano keys that were choked with dust. It was the taste of treacle when he needed something to lean on, the light brush of fingers underneath his shirt, the stubble on his chin.

He was lucky, and he knew it. He was blessed to see the world change, to be able to blink, to breathe, to cry. He was lucky to feel the dull thud of longing in his heart, the pain of loss and the joy of kissing on park benches in June. He remembered the days he spent in bed, too lost to cry, his heart so broken that it felt as though it froze over. He was lucky that he knew Time would sooth him. That it would pull him out of the dark and into the sharp pain of hunger, exhaustion, fear. That one day he would wake up and he would be able to taste again, if he held Hope and Love close enough.

Even when he wanted it to stop, Time dragged on, and it pulled him along until Life could remind him how harshly he was Loved. 

And Loved he was, by god he was. The Love was in his curtains, which Luna had bought him, wrapped around a bottle of dandelion wine which they drank on the floor. The Love was in the pen Ron found in the second drawer from the top, without needing to ask. The Love was in the letter he got while he sat in the snow, tears frozen to his lashes, which read, Thank you, I will. See you soon. The Love was in the tea that sat steaming on his desk, the book that was marked with lavender, the hand on his arm after the flash of a camera. The Love was in the way the trees bloomed through the last frost of the year-- beginning again despite the inevitable heartbreak of winter. 

The Love was staring at him in the mirror every single day. He needed to look a little harder to see it on some days, on the days where his eyes were wet and lonely and scarred.

Occasionally he would blink, and he would miss the way the sun had set, or the last conversation he shared with his friends. He cursed Time, then. He cursed it for running along without him, for skipping through the days and blurring his memories. He cursed it for rushing by before he had the chance to memorize every curve and line he saw, every smile, every nose, every hand. He cursed it for letting him forget the way he woke up with his arms draped over pale skin and his hands tangled in blond hair. He cursed it for taking away his youth, for stealing the kisses he peppered on Teddy’s colorful head. He cursed it for slipping through his fingers so callously, for whisking away without saying goodbye. 

But then he would see a beautiful change, and he couldn’t stay mad for long. Not when Draco whispered, love. Not when little Rosie made him cry with her perfect sunshine smiles. Not when his hands got muddy, when the dogs would race around the furniture, when the dry season would end and the rain would wash the heat away. He couldn’t stay mad when the nightmares stopped coming every night, or when he could walk down the street without being cornered by strangers and cameras and questions. He couldn’t stay mad when Teddy was discovering new things every minute, his eyes flashing and his laughter bouncing off the walls. He couldn’t stay mad when he could come home from a long day and nestle his face into the crook of a neck, when he could cry and talk and hear a new song on the radio. He couldn’t even try to complain when his heart became easier to share, when he could ask for what he needed, when he learned how to be himself instead of what everyone wanted him to be.

That was Life. That was the crawling duality that he was blessed with, and cursed with. That was the gift he had been given three times over. And he was bone-achingly grateful. He was grateful for the moments where he could only hear the _tik-tik-tik_ of the clock in the hallway. He was grateful for the rush of dinner with the Weasleys, for the brightness and the darkness. He was grateful for all the seconds he became better acquainted with Life, all the seconds that his parents would never get, the seconds he would never have again. He cherished the moments as they floated through him. He cherished the ache of fading memory, the smell of pastry baking, the soft touch of skin on skin. Every blink, every step, every smile. They were all precious and fleeting, perfect and beautiful. 

And Life continued, hidden behind the days on the calendar. Sneaking into the spaces between words. Grasping at him in the midst of every passing face, sliding underneath the wheels of every car, hovering over the passing clouds.

Life continues.


End file.
